


Where I Does Not Exist, Nor You

by pentaghastly



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Cousin Incest, Domestication, F/M, Fluff, I wrote fluff??, Queen Sansa, Reunions, WHAT????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 04:39:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentaghastly/pseuds/pentaghastly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only way they can heal is together, so together they stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where I Does Not Exist, Nor You

**Author's Note:**

> I literally NEVER write fluff, so I have no idea if this is good or not. Pleaseeee let me know in the comments - all critique or just general words are appreciated :)

>   
> _“But I love your feet_  
>  only because they walked  
>  upon the earth and upon  
>  the wind and upon the waters,  
>  until they found me.”  
>  ― Pablo Neruda

The first time they meet is the day the snow begins to thaw.

Of course, in a literal sense it is far from their first encounter, but it is their first time meeting not as Jon Snow and Sansa Stark, but as Jon Targaryen and The Queen in the North, the one the smallfolk say is the Mother incarnate. It is their first meeting not as bastard boy and regal half-sister, but as battle-scarred war hero and war-hardened ruler.

She is not what he expected and more - he remembers a fragile girl of eleven with fancy hairstyles, a girl who used words too large and proper for her tiny mouth, who wore dresses too tight and smiles too thin. This is the girl he expects, despite the fact that Jon knows it to be a foolish notion - war leaves no one unscathed, perhaps Sansa least of all, and so he is taken aback by his own sense of shock at the figure before him.

Beautiful. Powerful.

_Dangerous_.

She looks as if she were carved out of the ice itself, not even bothering with the tense smiles she used to offer him as a child, back when her disgust for him was petty and his for her was never quite as real as he would have liked it to be. Her Queensguard stands behind her, a reminder of her status, and he can see a particularly large woman - Brienne of Tarth, not even the men of the Night's Watch are ignorant to the name of the woman who assisted in his sister's ( _cousin's_ ) rescue - give him a pointed glare, and he is sure to keep his distance.

He's not sure he want's to get much closer, anyways.

For a moment, a fleeting second, he's tempted to ask why she's meeting him all the way out here, instead of in the castle. It seems strange - perhaps she didn't believe it would truly be him, and would rather cut the impostor off before giving her people false hope? He doesn't know - Sansa's mind has always been a mystery to him, moreso now than ever, and he knows it is not his place to ask. No matter his name, no matter their shared blood, it is not a soldier's place to question his Queen.

"Your Grace," he says at last, the title sounding formal and _wrong_ on his tongue when addressing her, because this is his _family_ , the last bit he has left, and despite their past qualms he wishes for nothing more than to hold her, if only to convince himself that she is real. "I'm so happy to see you well."

She's sizing him up, dissecting, trying to distinguish the man he is now from the boy she once knew. Jon wonders what truths lie beneath those vacant blue eyes, but if she is unimpressed with what she sees, he cannot tell.

"We Starks are harder to kill than some might have you believe," she says after a moment, and he wonders who she speaks of when she says we - Rickon? Bran? Arya? Has she seen them? - but before he can ask her back is turned, and she is motioning for their party to make their way back to the castle, to Winterfell.

To home.

\--

The ride back to the castle is silent, save for the trotting of hooves and whisper of the wind. Someone makes a comment about the snow beginning to melt, but there are no replies - not one of them wants to get their hopes up, or to jinx the fact that life might soon be on it's way to the North once more. The terrors of the winter are still fresh in their minds; Winter has come, death along with it, and the thought that it might soon leave is almost too traitorously beautiful to speak.

Jon knows. He has seen the terrors of the winter, of the darkness and the cold, perhaps better than anyone. He still has nightmares about the frozen grasp of death, about the dead eyes of the Others. He knows what winter brings.

And when he looks at Sansa, at the hardened woman that once was his sister, he thinks she must know too.

"Jon will walk me to my chambers," she says at once, as soon as they're in the main hall, casting Ser Brienne a glare as the woman tries to protest. "The ride has made me weary, and I should like to rest before the feast." Without another word she offers her arm to him, and he think he can see the plea behind her words, the desperation in her voice.

_Oh,_ he realizes at once, with a start. _Oh, she hates it here._

Of course she does. How could she not? She walks these halls alone where the ghost of their family, her mother and father and brothers and sister still wander, she hears their voices in her sleeps, hears their cries in the wind.

Poor, sweet Sansa, so alone for so long, and with the entire weight of a kingdom on her shoulders.

For the first time in a long time, Jon is filled with an overwhelming primal need, one he hasn't been aware of since Ygritte - _protect_. He knows it's stupid; Ygritte was no fragile bird, nor is Sansa, despite what some people seem to believe. He does not see a child when he looks at her, sees a woman, strong and dangerous and brave, and she has survived on her own for this long, yet all he wants to do is take her away.

It's idiotic, of course. She's the Queen and he's her cousin, Targaryen but still a bastard in all respects, and he has no right.

As soon as he can convince himself of that he can rest easy once more.

It is only when she enters her chambers, pulling him in behind her, and hears the door close, that her posture relaxes. Her shoulders slump, her face softens, and she runs her hand across her cheek as she paces, turning her back to him.

"I _hate_ this," she snaps, taking him by surprise, and something in her voice reminds him of the girl he once knew, if just for a moment. "The first family I've seen in ages, and I'm not even allowed to dismount my horse to hug you because it might be seen as 'inappropriate'. To hell with them." He's about to comment on the fact that he's never heard her curse before, but suddenly her arms are wrapped around his shoulders in an iron grip, and his mouth is filled with fiery hair - since when did she get as tall as him? - and he finds himself incapable of a response.

But it makes sense, this breakdown of hers. Of course it does. Every minute of her life being strong, putting up a facade, never being able to mourn her family or show signs of weakness for fear of rebellion or attack - war is still fresh in their minds, the wounds not quite healed, and he wonders how she hasn't gone mad sooner.

_Because she never had someone she would have trusted enough to talk to,_ he realizes, and that thought saddens him more than anything.

"I missed you," she sighs into the crook of his neck, grip unrelenting. "I can't do this - without you, without them, without _someone_. They all think I'm a hero because of my name, and I'm trying my hardest, but I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm a terrible Queen, Jon. They all think I'm brave, but I'm not. I'm _terrified_."

For a good while he doesn't know how to react. In all their relationship they've never hugged, barely even touched unless it was necessary, and he finds himself incapable of doing anything other than patting her back awkwardly, unsure of how to react to the sudden shift in her mood.

"It's good that you're afraid," he says after a moment, after he's finally able to collect his thoughts. "Father used to tell us boys that the only time a man could be brave is when he's afraid. You _should_ be scared - that's how you know you're still alive." And he thinks back to the times in the cold, to the chill of death creeping up his neck, to the times when fear was the only thing that kept him moving.

Yes, fear was for the wise. It was those _without_ fear, those were the truest fools.

It was only then that she pulled back to look at him, seemingly realizing their situation, and flushed, disentangling her arms from his body. "I'm sorry. I forgot myself." Coughing, she straightened up a touch, smoothing down the pleats of her gown - a style of the North, he noted - as she spoke. "I'm just...I'm very tired, Jon. I'm very tired of being alone."

If anyone can understand that, it's him.

"You're not alone anymore," he tells her, placing his hand on her shoulder in a way that he hopes is reassuring. He's never been very good at this, always too awkward, to soft-spoken to be of any real help. But he tries, for her, for the family and the childhood and the life that was stripped away from her, he'll try.

She pauses for a moment, glancing up at his face, and purses her lips in the same way she used to back when they were children, the way he knew she was thinking terribly hard about something. "You look so like him," she says after a beat, eyes tracing his face in a way that makes him anxious, but not uncomfortably so. "Father. My father - you look just like him now."

He's not sure if Sansa is looking for a response, so he offers none. Instead he gives her a small smile, a sad smile, but the best he can offer, and squeezes her shoulder gently.

It is from this moment that she seems to remember where they are - in her chambers, alone - and although he is her cousin, once brother, hardly a stranger, she slips quickly from Sansa Stark to Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, back straightening, eyes sharpening, face hardening. She steps away from him, not much but enough to create a distance, to let him know her purpose, and turns her head slightly to the side, avoiding his curious gaze.

"I really am tired," she tells him, and he does not doubt the truth behind her words. She looks it, as well, beneath the layers of regal beauty. "I'll see you at the feast tonight. Dress well - all eyes will be on you."

\--

He hardly leaves her side after that.

The only time throughout the day they are separated is when he's in the yard, training the young boys of this new Winterfell, the ones who have never before held a blade. It's a difficult job, and one that tries at his patience, but he's the best chance they have and they're _desperate_ , so he tries. In any case, the boys remind him of Bran and Rickon, and a young girl who always manages to sneak her way in is a little Arya, so he doesn't mind too much.

At all other times they remain together, as much for his sanity as hers. It has been too long since they have had any feeling of family, of shared blood, and now that they have been reunited being without one another causes them to revert into scared children without their mother. Not that he would know the feeling, of course, but he assumes this must be it.

The only way they can heal is together, so together they stay.

It is amazing, the transition she makes from tired woman in privacy to hardened monarch in public. In a mere second her features can harden, her posture shift, her tone sharpen. In a moment she is not his Sansa, but his _Queen_ and the sight is a fascinating one. In her life, the life she shows to him, she floats about with an ethereal beauty - in her rule she commands a room better than any man, and it is clear she has taken to her position as well as she took to sewing as a girl.

In secret she confesses to him that she fears she is failing at her job. And in whole truth, he cannot understand why.

Every meal is taken in her quarters, save for feasts - formerly her parent's, they're the largest in the castle, and the place where they are least likely to be interrupted. Everyone in the castle knows better than to intrude on the Queen, and suggestions of impropriety are met with a cold glare which silences soon enough.

It doesn't take long for the rumors to start. Of course it doesn't - it appears that the winter only seemed to feed to the Northerner's thirst for gossip, and after only a moon's turn of his presence in the castle the whispers have turned into accepted fact. For they're cousins now, brother and sister no longer, and Sansa is beautiful, ravishingly so, and a _Queen_ no less; any man would be happy to have her.

_He_ would be happy to have her, even he must admit. If it meant he could bring a smile to her face, to relieve some of her duties, to cheer her, then he would. But she still carries the burden of Joffery, and Tyrion, and Harry, and Petyr, so the thought is as far from his mind as it is from hers.

Which, as he learns as they sup one night, perhaps is not so far at all.

"Do you mind them?" she asks, head cocked to the side curiously. "The rumors about us, I mean. Surely you must have heard them by now; do they not upset you?"

Jon can't help but laugh at this, despite the face that her nose crunches up at the thought of being mocked. "Upset me? You're beautiful, Sansa, smart, kind, strong - and besides, it's not as if we were ever much of siblings before. They are not true, as we both know, so why should I be bothered?"

She seems to consider his words for a moment, brow scrunched in concentration as a finger curls through a loose strand of hair, and he wonders at the fact that she wears it down now. When they were children it was always done up in the complex styles of the South, but he thinks that this look suits her much better.

"It's only that...well, I was so awful to you, wasn't I? I thought that the suggestion might disturb you." And she sounds so genuinely concerned that he cannot help but laugh again.

"That was years ago, Sansa. We were children, and I'm fairly certain I bore no more love for you than you for me. It is in the past; forget it." Covering his good hand over hers, Jon gave her a kind smile, the kind he used to give Arya, the kind now reserved for Sansa and Sansa alone. "Please."

But although her face softens it seems she cannot, pale fingers continuing to worry at the hem of her gray cotton sleeves, eyes flickering anywhere but his face.

"I've never apologized though, have I? All this time we've spent together, and I've never apologized." Blue eyes meet his gray then, now sharp and focused as a Queen's should be, and she squares her shoulders before speaking. "I'm sorry, Jon. I am. I was a child, selfish and cruel, and I treated you with naught but shallow malice. And I'm terribly, terribly sorry."

He pauses only a beat before squeezing her hand, reveling in the success of her fingers curling around his own. "You are forgiven, Sansa. Always."

\--

"Do you miss it? The Night's Watch."

"Never."

"Not at all?"

Jon thinks about her question for a moment. Does he miss the biting cold? Does he miss the feeling of death and betrayal? Does he miss the constant shadow of terror creeping up his neck, chilling his bones? Would he rather be there than here?

"I miss my brothers," he tells her honestly, slowly, unsure of how to properly phrase his feelings. "I miss Sam, but he shall be here in a moon's turn - did I tell you that? yes, soon enough - other than that, there is nothing to miss. Not when I'm here, much warmer and _much_ happier with you."

That part seems to please her, a smile flickering across her face. The Godswood is silent save for their voices, and he swears he can hear the light thud of her heartbeat as they walk - or perhaps that is the pulse of the trees; he can never quite be sure. Sansa swears she can hear Bran's voice in the whisper of the wind, but he spends far less time in the woods than her has yet to hear the boy's call, and even as they speak he strains his ears at the off chance that one day he might.

"Sometimes I miss the Vale," she tells him, and he starts. This is the first time they've ever spoken of her time as Littlefinger's bastard, and he's not sure he particularly wants to hear. But he will not stop her, either - this is her story to tell, and a part of him is honored to be the one she tells it to.

"I miss being Alayne Stone - that was my name there, you might have heard. Her life was so much more simple than mine. Alayne _had_ a life, had a father that loved her - sometimes too much, of course, but never to little - and had Sweetrobin, and had friends that made dirty jokes. I know it must sound so horrible to you, missing the life of a bastard, but," she pauses for a moment to brush her hand along the face of the Weirwood tree, a small frown gracing her delicate features. "Alayne was the master of her own life. I fear I no longer am."

It makes sense, in a way. As Jon Snow he may have been a bastard, but he was free, no expectations placed on him like Robb, or even young Bran and Rickon. The times where they had both father and mother, and last name - those were the times he envied them. The times they were under constant scrutiny? Not as much.

He wonders now if he would take back the time he spent as a Snow, if he would have preferred to have known his lineage from the start. He does not think he would - he is Targaryen in name, perhaps, but Jon Snow he was raised, Jon Snow he remains.

In any case, King Robert would like have had him killed has he known, and he much prefers the thought of alive than dead.

He's about to speak up when her own voice cuts his words short, tone clipped but not unkind. "Enough talk of foolish things," she insists, voice risen just an octave, and he knows well when enough has been enough. "I have come to pray. Join me, will you? I think having the two of us together will please Bran - perhaps this time he may speak to us."

And so he does, the quiet voice in the breeze bring the first tears to Jon's eyes since he was a child.

\--

He has been in Winterfell exactly six moons when she broaches the subject with him.

To say he is unprepared is an understatement. After a rigorous hour training the children - Arya's look-alike, little Lya, now a full-fledged student, is better with her sword than half the boys - he enters his chamber, sweat-covered and panting, to find her seated on his bed, back to him and gazing out the window.

She's hardly ever been in his room before; the only other time he can remember is when he was sick with fever for a week and she held a cool cloth to his head for an entire night, whispering platitudes into his ear while he tossed and turned. But that was ages ago, and a completely different situation - to find the Queen alone in his bedroom, dressed only in a simple shift, while his blood is racing and heart is pumping, is a far less innocent scenario.

"Sansa," his voice is wary as he addresses her, unsure as to whether or not he should take a step forward before he decides to simply close the door behind him and remain rooted where he stands. "Is everything alright?"

She turns to look at him then, eyes unreadable, and pats the space on the bed next to her. Never one to turn down an order from her, not only for the fact that she is his Queen but the fact that he think he may be incapable of rebellion where she is concerned, he makes his way across the room, footsteps light, cautious, as if any sudden movement might cause her to snap.

"I've had a conversation with my Council today," she begins, slowly, voice soft but firm. "They have wish of me to get married. Soon."

"Oh." His voice is flat, unimpressed - how is he supposed to feel? Although not intimate, not ever, their relationship has steadily and quickly shifted into one not unlike husband and wife, and Jon does not think he fancies the idea of another man taking his place. No, not at all. "And who is your prospect? I guess they suggested Aegon?" The young prince seemed the most viable option in any case.

"They did," she replied, confirming his suspicions with a rush of dread. _No, not right, not right._ "And I refused. I don't _know_ Aegon, Jon. I don't trust him. So I suggested someone else." Blue eyes training on his face, her even tone could not hide the nervousness in her voice, not from him.

"I suggested you."

For a moment he's relieved, utterly so. And then he's taken aback - because this is Sansa, _his_ Sansa in all ways but one, and here she sits across from him suggesting marriage? Once sister, never in feeling but always in blood, now cousin, connected in all _but_ blood, his Queen - his wife?

Throat dry, he coughs a little before speaking, sounding much less confident than her. "And what did they say?" He's not sure he wants to know - if they refused, he think it just might kill him, having been so close.

"They said yes, obviously." With a roll of her eyes he can't help the grin that slips on to his face - she looks so much like Sansa from childhood, with the petulant expression on her face as if she can't believe he would ask such a question. "I'm _Queen_ , and the smallfolk love you. You'd be perfect - so long as you say yes as well, that is." The anxiety in her tone has returned ever-so-slightly, and she reaches out to clasp his hand, a motion that is familiar in the fact that he is usually the one doing it to her.

"I'm not doing this just out of convenience, you know. There is no one I would rather marry - you're brave, and kind, and smart, and the only person in this world I've been able to trust since..." Her voice breaks, and after what appears to be a fit of indecision she stands, hands pulling off her shift as all train of thought in Jon's head is derailed.

Can she possibly be....? _No,_ she cannot, but she _is_ , slipping into her small clothes before him, bathed in the light of the setting sun.

"I'm no maid," she tells him, head held high as she takes a step closer to where he still sits, immobile. "Jaime...Jaime taught me how to please a man, how to love him, showed how two people didn't have to hurt each other, but could be happy. I could make you happy, Jon. And you would make me happy, happier than any."

He hasn't been with a woman since Ygritte, can hardly remember where to place his hands. He should be outraged at the thought of her with Jaime Lannister, or trying to conserve her modesty. But the image of her before him, offering herself to him in the purest of ways, fills him so full of love that he fears his heart might burst at the sight of it, and so he can do nothing but take her in his arms and kiss every inch of her face, feel every inch of her body, until this gaping need in his chest that she has made might finally be filled.

"You make me happier than anything," he tells her, hands stroking over every inch of skin that they can find, delighting in the small noises she makes, reveling in the knowledge that he is the one to cause them. "And I will try with every inch of my being to do the same for you."

The grip of her arms around him tightens, and for a long moment he stops his ministrations to simply hold her, to smell the honey-sweet scent of her hair, the taste of her skin as sweet as the lemon cakes she still so favors, to marvel in the fact that the way she feels about him is not so different from the way he has found himself feeling about her. In this moment, this simple act of holding, they are more one than he thinks any two people could ever be - for he is not Jon Snow or Jon Targaryen, and she is not Sansa Stark or Queen in the North, but they are one being, broken hearts beating the same, and she is so beautiful he might cry.

But instead he loves her, every bit of her, as she was meant to be loved and as she never was, and vows to do the same every day of their lives.


End file.
